


Melpomene

by Out_Of_Custody



Series: The Mnemosyne Series [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Daffy Duck - Freeform, Eichen | Echo House, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Harry Potter - Freeform, I can't really angst, Lara Croft - Freeform, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Marvin The Martian - Freeform, Mates, Mentions of Blood, Pack Feels, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles is all over the place, Wolf Derek, Wolf Derek is very single minded, air vents, and torture, eichen house, hint of a foreign language, mentions of ADHD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5245478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Out_Of_Custody/pseuds/Out_Of_Custody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'And yet here she was, travelling air-vents with the grace of a gazelle praying thanks to every known deity that her sleep-clothes did actually include shorts instead of panties-only. She looked very Lara Croft right now… or not considering that her virtual role model would never be seen dead without a weapon.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to split up this puppy because the last one was already like... superhard to read and I didn't realize until later, so I'm learning from my mistakes ;b 
> 
> Also: please holler if you find any mistakes [fixed the plothole that nobody noticed LIKE A BOSS]

Their voices returned long before mobility set in and thusly the pack spent a rough fifteen minutes on the floor whining pitifully at the loss of their Spark alternating between clumsy attempts at reaching out to the closest pack-member and trying to put their hands over their ears to alleviate the echo still bouncing there.

Derek himself was still hearing the phantom-ringing in his head and didn’t even bother to oppress his own urges, accepting the questing hands making it his way with a shaky one of his own, rubbing circles into the bodies that slowly closed in on him. He wanted to get up and see to the parents, still frozen on their seats but couldn’t find the strength in his limbs.

The pack-bonds chafed in the cavity of his chest, like barbed wire rubbing over his skin with Stiles’ disappearance and he wondered how they could possibly have lost her _again_ – why it seemed as if it were always his most fervent attachments that were taken from him; from them.

Scott was the first to try to stand, fumbling with his body as if he were newly born; a notion that was quickly dispelled when his stomach lurched and got rid of whatever pancakes he had ingested before the incident. From the floor the wolves groaned, the sickly, acid smell attacking their already vulnerable senses.

He tried to mutter a Sorry but couldn’t even muster the strength to wipe his mouth after his gastro-intestinal-upheaval and sunk boneless against the cupboards, too weak to even whine.

\--

Stiles is well aware that what she just did would have cost her a wand… if this were the Harry Potter-verse; there’d have been a fancy owl fluttering through the next best window dropping an ominous letter from the Ministry telling her off for using Underage Magic and ‘inviting’ her to a hearing at the next possible date.

As it was this was real life.

The face over her own was bleary at best but judged by the voice and the mostly fine bone-structure it was a girl; and she was probably pretty… and definitely not human; not with those eyes glowing blue as they did.

“Hey, come on I have no idea how to handle this – you’ll have to give me something…” she whined a little, hesitant hands reaching out to pat awkwardly over Stiles’ head – something in her _zing_ -ed and she realized belatedly that her still agitated Spark recognized the girl as _pack_. Which was weird… because pack…

Pack wasn’t here.

Her breathing picked up again, aligning with her tachycardiac hear-beat and the anxious magic within her feeling for the pack-bonds that were stretched so uncomfortably and so tautly that Stiles had to wonder feverishly if they were going to snap.

“Where is _here_?” she croaked – her mouth felt as if she’d tried to eat the Sahara – and tried to swallow around the panic that had lodged itself like a rock in her throat. She could _do_ this god-damnit; Derek _counted_ on her to return.

“Eichen House.” The girl explained, her patting hands now a little less shaky as they sifted through her short hair – the movement cemented the pack-sentiment that had been progressing where the girl was concerned (Could she develop a panic-attachment to a were? A pack-substitute?). “They brought you in an hour ago and didn’t hesitate to strap you in.”

Yeah… about that. She hadn’t really _seen_ a lot when she’d opened her eyes, granted; there was a blinding light shoved into her face with a few blurry shapes resembling heads sporadically appearing in her line of sight. But none of those had particularly incited her panic – it had, granted, been a rough wake-up call that had had her blinking heavily to regain her senses – what _had_ however had been the large pick in the hand of one of those blurry shapes, aiming steadily for her eyes.

She knew a Lobotomy when she saw one…

“Can you… strap me out?”

She wasn’t capable of the English language. Not at this moment. Right now she was wondering if this was what a towel felt like after having been through the washing machine and post-dryer. But the girl whose face became sharper by the second didn’t even hesitate to put out the claws and rip through the leather encasements.

Stiles sat up, closing her eyes when her stomach roiled.

The bodies of their medics were strewn haphazardly around the floor, blood pooling in almost clandestine rivulets from noses or heads as if it were afraid to upset if seen – Stiles didn’t (couldn’t) concentrate on that.

Eichen House.

Beacon Hills’ loony bin.

Their _Narrenturm_.

Awesome.

“Any chance we can get out of here?”

 --

They never even caught her scent.

Beaten and battered as they were the singular decisiveness of his pack should have scared him considering that once their limbs were their own again there was no hesitation in trying to suss out the location of the young woman they considered their pack-mother; Derek spearheading the little troupe with Lydia staying at the Stilinski’s home.

She’d opted out on the (wo)man-hunt citing the slow recovery of the parental triumvirate, two-thirds of which found themselves still frozen – and since Chris Argent felt a whole lot of more useful amongst the grown-ups, he, too, stayed.

But even while they were familiar with Stiles’ scent to a point where it was natural to find her by nose alone within the forest, they could not find a single tendril of Stiles in the streets.

As if the earth had opened up to swallow her whole.

By the end of the day when they’d split up at least ten times spreading effectively over the city in a unitedly-separated effort to find their Spark they had to concede defeat. None of them had found even the slightest sliver of Stiles. So when the sun set Derek solemnly collected his pack, piled them in his Toyota and carted them back to the Stilinski household where Lydia had held the fort for the day in a not-so-rare show of her female strength and pride as human in their midst.

The parental triumvirate were seated at the living-room table, spiked hot-chocolates in their hands. And while he could see the tear-tracks on the cheeks of the man of the house he didn’t bother to call him out on it – the Sherriff, in return, didn’t call him out on his frantic search or his defeated return.

Lydia had informed Derek about the Sherriff’s reaction in the form of an APB and almost the whole station flying out to cover the grid – not that Derek himself wouldn’t have noticed, given the fact that he’d been held up a good five times for his car to be searched; he didn’t even bother scowling anymore after the second time.

The Banshee didn’t hold back on the Adult-Juices when she served them their own mugs of hot-choc, despite the fact that none of them actually _could_ get drunk – they wouldn’t have wanted to but… it was the thought that counted; because the fact that Stiles was gone _again_ was worthy of getting drunk in despair.

 --

Okay so… seriously? Who’d have thought that playing One-Shooters of the Zombie-Apocalypse-Version would help her one day?

Because: not her; seriously – nuh-uh.

And yet here she was, travelling air-vents with the grace of a gazelle praying thanks to every known deity that her sleep-clothes did actually include shorts instead of panties-only. She looked very Lara Croft right now… or not considering that her virtual role model would never be seen dead without a weapon.

The fact remained that she was currently manoeuvring the vents like a bloody pro, as if she’d been born into it, or trained for the occasion since the tender age of six when she’d been picked up from the orphanage, and trying to find either a way outside or an un-occupied room to squat in.

If that didn’t do her Superman-shirt justice then she didn’t know what would.

The ventilation shaft dipped precariously below her, tearing her out of her thoughts as it creaked from the hinges – surprised she stilled abruptly, hastily looking for any grids that would allow her to see whether or not she was currently hanging over a room filled with people.

“No noise.” --Malia growled her from just behind; the girl who’d helped her locate the vent in the first place and who’d been equally desperate to find a way out or just some place for respite – the girl who was a were-coyote and had been orphaned at the age of eight (without the Adderall in her system her brain had no trouble flash-remembering the folder that had held the confidential intel on the Tate-Car-crash).

There _was_ a small grating just to her front and right and, curious, she shuffled closer – just a few inches – and peered through. The criss-crossing of the small wires tainted her visuals slightly but she could make out the coldly clinical white of a medical room beneath her if the med cot beneath her wouldn’t have given it away.

Restrained with similar leather belts she’d escaped nary an hour ago lay a young wolf, going by the eyes and the fangs, unable to keep his face in check what with the electrodes attached to him. Stiles gulped.

“The subject has been treated with electrical shocks of 35 Volt for a good two hours now.” --the voice from the ‘Off’ announced as if presenting a medical case to a jury, “Aside from the physical alterations in the form of elongated canines, contortion of the upper facial structure and expansion of the jaw to accommodate aforementioned canines as well as the morphism of the eyes into a decidedly golden colouration the heart-rate has barely changed. The subject shows signs of dehydration and exhaustion; vitals stable otherwise.”

Dread washed over her like ice-water during the ALS-challenge when the electrical buzz picked up, the disembodied voice audible just below her.

“Ten thirty-five, elevation of the Voltage from thirty-five to forty-five.”

The click of a door-handle echoed shallowly in her ears, but Malia’s hand on her lower-back tore her out of what she recognized as a rapidly building panic attack. “Move.” She ordered. “Now.”

 **

Okay so, to be honest Stiles was starting to feel a lot less Lara Croft and more Marvin the Martian failing epically in the face of Daffy Duck.

Which was ridiculous considering that Daffy was a fucking _Duck_ … with _speech impediments_. And still he got the gal that Marvin wanted. In outer space.

Fucking Duck.

Fucking Vents.

Fucking Eichen House.

Fucking-

“Fuck!”

Stiles didn’t bother to check her mouth as the vent beneath her gave way in a most unexpected fashion and for a few seconds she didn’t know up from down and before she _could_ make sense of it, the descent of her body was abruptly stopped by a solid object that promptly and unasked forced all remaining air from her lungs which caused her to see nothing but black for a few moments.

When she managed to open her eyes again she looked up at Malia, the short hair of her ally framing her face in the dark vent that looked a lot higher than the fall down would have allowed her to estimate.

“You alright?”

Stiles groaned. Nothing about this was alright, her back protested inconveniently and her ribs refused to cooperate with the expansion of her lungs which seriously hampered her ability to breathe properly through the pain. At least, she figured, nothing felt broken – and, yeah, she knew that feeling intimately after years of running with her mutts.

“Will be.” She grunted instead, turning her head to focus on something – anything – else. She found dust motes. “Where are we?”

Malia, above her, was more careful in her descent, graceful in her landing just next to Stiles spiting the scrubs she’d been in since early this morning – right now the Spark envied the other girl for her full leg-coverage.

“It looks… old.” The were-coyote cautioned, slinking away to peruse the perimeter. Stiles dared an attempt at sitting up and found that, spinning head aside, it went a whole lot smoother than she’d anticipated. The small place they’d stumbled upon was dusty and even Stiles could smell the disuse and abandonment of what looked like an old attic.

There was a short silence in which their eyes met and a slow, tentative hope spread.

Once Stiles regained her composure and had ascertained that she had in fact survived her tumble from the vent with a few bruises at best, she joined Malia in the inspection of their new hide-out: a small, mansard whose door had been walled in. However, as they soon found out, despite the original door being walled in, the _servant’s passages_ were not.

Because Eichen House had actually been built around the ruins of Eichen’s family home – burnt to the ground by the very sister his parents had neglected due to her mental insufficiency. With most of her family inside (she should _not_ find this ironic but… well… she really hadn’t taken her meds today). After having had it rebuilt with the fortune that had fallen to him, the Physician had then opened it as a mental facility in 1912 – which it had been ever since – and she wondered why he’d rebuilt the servants’ passages with the house; but pegged it on sentimentality.

This was loads better than air vents in any case.

By what Stiles assumed to be evening, they’d found a more clandestine hidey-hole than what they’d fist stumbled over. She had to mull over the rather morbid suspicion whether or not this little room they currently found themselves in had originally been Artemis Eichen sister’s little looney cage – but it was relatively cosy either considering that it even had a small window to the outside.

She was hot and sweaty from the adventurous day and ever since her Spark had calmed down the pack-bonds chafed uncomfortably within her, writhed like snakes made out of brimstone, abusing her insides and choking her up at the most inopportune of moments.

Malia had curled into a familiar heap of were-human that Stiles couldn’t help but close in on – if only to feel the presence of another body close by; given her lack of medication she wouldn’t be surprised if her brain would keep her awake. Judged by the fact that it hadn’t really had the chance to do that since she’d been diagnosed at the age of seven and had ever since then been on medication. Her brain would probably be a bitch like that – totally sour-wolfing about the fact that it hadn’t had the chance to keep her up in the last ten years and go all out at the first chance it got.

“You smell weird.” The were-coyote grumbled sleepily from her side.

Stiles bit her lip. “Sorry that’s the ADHD coming right though.”

Malia lifted her head from where she’d placed it over her arms. “No _that_ has been there the whole day. I just… You smell like _wolf._ ”

It sounded a little like an insult if she listened too closely but given the fact that Malia Tate had, apparently, spent eight years of her life in her secondary (coyote) shift, the Spark wasn’t too surprised about the grouchiness. Coyotes and Wolves didn’t get along naturally.

“Comes with living in a pack.” She answered instead, fingering her shirt – a gift from Scott. “The constant nuzzling tends to leave a heavy scent-impression.”

“That’s what it’s meant to do.” Malia agreed, rearranging her body in order to still curl up but face Stiles – an exceptionally considerate gesture for a half-human-more-animal who had spent most of her life alone in the wilderness. “I’ve never had a pack… how is that?”

Stiles smiled – here was something she knew.

\--

Derek was torn between the animalistic desire to round up his pack and keep them safe and the very human desperation that had him climbing walls and – for the sake of everyone’s sanity – made him want to lope through the trees of his homeland until his head cleared and he could take an objective stance in trying to solve the situation.

He was _this_ close to biting someone’s head off.

 ** _His_** was gone; had been **_stolen_** right from under his nose and he needed to **_run_** , he needed to alleviate the **_ache_** in his chest or so help him God they would not be able to be hold him accountable for what he’d **_do_**.

“You alright, son?”

He whined.

Lord Above but the placating hand on his shoulder belonging to the father of his ma- _anchor_ ( ** _Mate, mate, mate!_** —the wolf howled in his chest, unwilling to be repressed any longer) made it worse, and the address of _son_ …

“Derek.”

Chris’ cutting tone tore him out of his musings and made him suddenly, acutely, aware of his hunched posture. Inhaling profoundly, he straightened his back, looked upwards in a silent plea for fortitude and endurance before he exhaled again – giving the hunter a telling look.

Werewolves were notoriously shit without their anchors.

“If you need a few hours…” Derek swallowed, his eyes swivelling towards the Sherriff – tired looking and beaten down but, ultimately, determined. Nothing of the resignation that was currently gnawing on the Alpha seemed to get through to the head of the Stilinski household – if anything the man looked ready to eviscerate kingdoms.

Much to his chagrin… he _did_ need a few hours.

He had a pack to look after and considering; his Second was out of commission – **_gone_** ; he couldn’t trust the distraught members of his pack to not try something stupid while on their own… And John Stilinski was used to ordering the youngsters around, he had Scott’s trust, and that meant having Allison’s trust, and thereby Isaac’s and thusly Lydia’s. There was, literally, no one better than the Sherriff to leave his pack to. Especially when supported by Chris and Melissa.

He nodded, swallowed. “It would be… much appreciated.”

Chris gave him a wry look – somewhere between triumphant and… worried.

 _That hurt didn’t it?_ \--he remembered her teasing him not too long ago (her absence hurt a lot more).

The Sherriff gave a stiff nod. “Make sure you’re back… today at the very least.” --obviously having to forcibly stop himself from treating a twenty-four year-old man as he would his seventeen year-old daughter.

Derek echoed his gesture and, instead of fleeing the premises as he so wanted to, passed through the living room, giving his pack – piled up there around what looked like a small shrine to Stiles – the chance to see him leave and understand that he left them in the care of their pack-mother’s father; practically a member himself.

Lydia stood unexpectedly but decisive and accompanied him outside towards the backyard-facing porch taking his shirt out of his hands when he shed it – she didn’t look at him when he bent to take off his shoes, or when he shifted into his most beastly form, yet she didn’t hesitate to pick up the pants that pooled around his paws.

He waited for her to retreat into the living room, locking the door carefully behind herself ere he took off.

**

The night-air was tepid with the fading September Day and as he ran, his tongue lolled out almost automatically, his jaw opening. Under normal circumstances he’d have barely moved at a trot, given the weather. Given the situation however… well that was something else.

His wolf needed to run, needed to do something before he’d go on a rampage. His anchor – **_mate, mate, mate_** – had been ripped from his side and no matter how often he repeated the fact in his mind it changed neither the outlook nor his emotions on it.

And that was unacceptable.

Even his beast was aware that if he didn’t get it together soon the likelihood of being helpful in the retrieval of Stiles – **_mate, mate, mate_** – would probably lower to almost inexistent percentage-amounts, starting and ending somewhere in the .00 range.

But the forest under his paws, the soft, loose earth that he kicked up with every forwards-lope, the scent of the evergreens in his nose and the sounds of the night calmed him on an instinctual basis. Like a mother humming to their child.

(Like Stiles when she’d rocked his pack side-to-side… **_mate, mate, mate_** …)

At one given point he swerved sharply to the side, following the borders of his land, the perimeters of his territory, unthinkingly – so deeply were its’ limits ingrained into his psyche.

When he came upon the lake, he slowed, woofing and shaking his head.

The night smelt sweet and felt soothing on his limbs as he stopped on the sandy bank, lapping cautiously at the water. His mind was calmer by now, settled by the simplistic rhythm that his animalistic side provided and had him to adhere to. Derek The Human was still there but… detached; less in charge of the actions in this corporeal manifestation – it felt like respite when he could finally lean back and look at the facts from a new point of view.

The Alpha-Wolf knew that right now nothing could be done to help Stiles, that the pack was his first priority – that they suffered from the disappearance of their pack-member just as he did and that they were lost if he didn’t get it together.

**_(His mate would have his balls if he’d allowed the situation to blindside him and have his pack leader-less – of this there was no doubt.)_ **

As an animal it was clear that he had to keep them together as much as possible, had to have them supporting each other and strengthening their pack-bonds.

As a human, Derek was well aware that, once again, he found himself tasked with taking over Stiles’ speciality of organizing and planning.

He wondered what the girl would have done and snorted at the fleeting thought of commissioning himself a wristlet with ‘What Would Stiles Do’ emblazoned on it – given how often he’d been in the situation lately it didn’t even seem like too much of a stretch to have it done.

And yet…

His chest ached – tearing him out of his maudlin – and he whined ever so softly, rolling onto his side, as if the movement could alleviate the sharp tug on his heart. The sensation was strangely familiar, reminiscent of when-

The Wolf jumped to its’ feet, eyes wide, excited and the human in its head shouted in Eureka so loudly that even the animal gave a happy yip. He couldn’t believe that he’d overseen it! Prancing momentarily in the revelation the animal quickly regained its’ bearings and, soundlessly, bounded from the clearing and back into the woods.

Derek smiled, baring glinting teeth – there was a chance yet.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narrenturm: also ‘Fool’s Tower’, continental Europe's oldest building for the accommodation of mental patients, built in 1784, Vienna, still standing, now a museum


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's solutions and resolutions in this one. Also... slightly awkward Chris Argent (which, I think, I did pretty good on :b)

Chris hadn’t, in all honesty, expected for Derek to return before day-break.

The emotional state of the younger man prior to his leaving to ‘walk it off’ had been telling for the experienced hunter and too, from the looks of it, for the Sherriff – who, while new to the Supernatural, had years of perfecting the interpretation of the body language under his belt.

So when something scratched at the door to the back-porch in a quiet plea to be let in barely after the clock had softly chimed midnight, it was Chris who stealthily extracted himself from the limbs haphazardly thrown over him and went to investigate. John slid his eyes open in a squint but other than that didn’t budge from Melissa’s side; Chris knew that the man barely needed to move much in order to reach the fire-arm secured underneath the bed-frame; he left the nurse in capable arms.

When he allowed the large wolf in Derek quickly snuffled his pack before, clamping his clothes between his jaw, he moved to the bathroom in the back and emerged a few minutes later.

The change in demeanour was striking.

Where before Derek had resembled a ticking time bomb, ready to take off someone’s head – or rip someone’s throat out… with his teeth (Allison had let him in on the story once he’d been deemed trustworthy; it was curious how lightly Stiles had taken the threat back then… when she couldn’t possibly have known-) – he was now composed and in control, the ideal epitome of every Alpha-Wolf out there. Calm to the T.

He didn’t comment on it and the wolf, too, kept silent – appraised him with a nod and joined his pack on the floor.

The kids had passed out around a small lump of Stiles-paraphernalia – Chris suspected the items to be all-time-favourites of the missing girl, heavily imbued with her scent – but had managed to kick off their blankets in their valiant desire to pile up. Derek quietly made to rearrange their covers and pillows, before he, too, joined the heap, mindful of their slighter frames and their unconscious shuffling to be closer to him.

Deciding to walk the house in order to appease his ingrained habit of checking perimeters, he allowed himself to only shortly ponder on the fact that his daughter – a huntress in her own rights – was right in the middle of the pile, cuddling closer to the Alpha and the heated bodies of the pack, before he returned to Melissa and John.

\--

“You said there were _hooks_ in me… when Stiles was still-“

He didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t quite want to; not when the young woman in front of him understood perfectly what he meant to say either way – Lydia nodded, her starry eyes fixated on his lips.

“I need you to… listen?” he cautioned. “See if they’re still there – if we can garner anything from them…”

At this the red-head bit her lip, her mimic turning slightly guilty as her eyes slid to the side – evading him. “I can…” she started but stopped. A short pause – then: “I can look if they’re still there but…”

Derek tilted his head, lowering it minutely to catch her eyes that still, skilfully, avoided his. “What is it?” he asked – maybe a little rougher than he intended but… he could tell that something was _off_ about her and his gruffness was equal measures worry as it was aggravation.

Lydia didn’t let it get to her; she pulled a face. “I can’t _hear_.” She pouted, crossing her arms like a petulant child who’d been separated from their favourite toy as she glared at the carpeted floor that her toes rhythmically pressed into. “I tried to listen to Stiles’ Case-board yesterday and… there’s just… a _ringing_ in my head and I can’t-“

The Alpha-Wolf whined in understanding, encircling her shoulders with his arms – of course those bastards wouldn’t stop at infringing on the senses of the werewolves; he closed his eyes, hugging her a little tighter yet – of course they’d put the pack’s Banshee out of commission as well. For a few moments the red-head allowed the coddling before she stepped out of his embrace ever so gently (she didn’t break their contact though, not completely).

Isaac had started in on them from where he’d been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, only a few steps, but Derek knew that the young woman could feel the werewolf in her back – the silent support; he didn’t think it too much of a stretch if he suspected Isaac to have been present when Lydia had tried to _listen_ in on Stiles’ Case-board. The high-schooler didn’t speak a word but Lydia’s lips quirked and her shoulders dropped a little. Not for the first time did the Alpha marvel about the strangely mute friendship between the two of them.

“When a sense leaves you… people say that other senses start to compensate…” the blonde said softly, still not closing in further than he was. “Do you think… maybe yours would too?”

Turning, Lydia faced the Beta, staring directly at him without seeing and both Isaac and Derek kept silent as the A-student mulled the thought over. “It’s worth a try at the very least.” She conceded finally.

\--

Derek had left her full authority over the whole thing and it showed how far he’d come from the days when he’d been convinced that his word was the law that he knew her enough to be aware that Stiles was just as important to her as she was to him – trusting her to do the right thing, to find a solution to the task at hand.

She’d briefly contemplated going to the Loft considering that they conducted most of their ‘magic’ within its’ concrete walls but had decided against it. Stiles’ room was here, suffused to the very last corner with her essence and… if Lydia wouldn’t be able to feel her _here_ she doubted her ability to do so anywhere else on this planet.

Isaac had thoughtfully pulled Scott aside and informed him of their plan of action which had prompted the brunette Beta into chancing a call to Dr Deaton, thankfully available at nearly all times – _when_ he was – and informed about the Stiles incident as a courtesy of Scott taking his accumulated leave. The vet-slash-druid hadn’t hesitated to turn the sign on his front-doors and head over to the Stilinski household.

Currently, however, his presence – as quiet as he shaped up to be – distracted her _ever so slightly_.

Lydia took a breath; refocussed.

Dr Deaton was not important right now. Neither was Isaac, or Allison or Scott or even her own mother. Consequently neither was Derek – her Alpha – whom she’d positioned in front of the closed window in Stiles’ room.

She took another breath; centred herself, stared at Derek’s chest.

Stiles was important right now – _the_ most important. Stiles who was Lord-knew-where in this forsaken city…

_The hooks had morphed – evolved…_

…probably captured…

_Nylon string and fisher’s hooks had been replaced by rigging and iron anchorage…_

…probably mouthing off her captors…

_Strong rope springing from the body, pulsating – like a heart-line…_

…probably antagonizing people who were this close to hurting her…

Lydia raised her hand to the vermillion rope, barely resisting the temptation to give it a tug – she stared down its’ length, still focussing on Stiles…

…probably alone…

 _Or not_ \--she didn’t consciously conjure the image of the brunette teen that popped up – it didn’t work like that – but as she tilted her head to look closer she could tell that… while she was unfamiliar she was-

 _Pack_.

Lydia couldn’t _hear_ properly, but she knew the motions of the mouth well enough, knew what her articulation felt like around her own lips as she mimicked the motion of the unknown girl – and she’d said the word so often that she didn’t have to consciously think about deciphering it anymore.

The young woman was pack. Brown, shoulder-length hair that lightened the tips, slightly upturned nose and then _those eyes_ – it didn’t precisely tell her how the teen was pack, but she knew that such was the case.

Stiles wasn’t alone; she was seated next to the stranger, somewhere dusty, somewhere… _dark_ – and not only dark in lighting but in _feeling_ … somewhere sombre, but she knew-

No, not _she_ – she turned her head a little, trying to see out of the corners of her eyes the silhouette that closed in on her; they didn’t step out in front of her right away but neither could Lydia take her eyes away from Stiles; if she did then the image would be gone, she’d lose the connection and who knew if she’d manage to return-

Her grandmother stepped in front of her, smiling ever so softly – secretively as she moved her right hand to her temple, the back of her hand facing forth ever so shortly before she swept her hand forward, rotating her wrist to align her hand vertically at the height of her eyes, fingers stretched delicately in a non-descript way.

Lydia stared – her grandmother smiled.

Did it again.

_Lydia._

Repeat.

Lydia.

Repea-

“Lydia.”

She jerked back from Derek’s face; where her grandmother had just been.

\--

Deaton shook his head, dejected. “I can tell you it’s probably a word taken from a sign language, but it’s not American Sign Language – or even International Sign Language.”

“They’re different?” --prompting a ‘duh’-look from the strawberry-blonde woman in front of the vet who turned to stare at Scott but, wisely, kept his judgment to himself.

“There are 137 official sign languages in the world – there are countries, in Europe for example, who might share a vocal language but whose sign-languages differ from territory to territory.”

Isaac furrowed. “That’s stupid.”

“The affected communities have compensated by agreeing on certain international signs to be used within a given context, but even those are limited in number and the signers usually complete their sentences with words of their native language.” Deaton corrected.

The blonde’s furrow deepened. “They’re just… guessing?”

He gave the boy a mellow smile. “Many signs resemble each other.” He offered instead. “And if you are an experienced or even native speaker – or signer in this case – the comparison gets a lot easier.”

Lydia groaned. “So this one sign could pertain to at least 135 languages that we do not speak?” she tried to clarify and, to be honest, Alan felt her frustration.

For a Banshee this young to develop so quickly and promising was astonishing to watch, fascinating even – but he understood that her moving fast also fed her impatience for knowledge, her need to comprehend. He remembered being like that too.

\--

He might not have the most experience when it came to supernatural creatures flooding the gates of his town – he was still wading through the molasses that was a _Beastiary_ and most of the time he had to rely on the notes his own daughter had created, translating Latin and Old Greek into English as if it had always been a past time of her. Note: he did not wonder about her fluency in Old German (Claudia had read their daughter _Beowulf_ from the very moment the little tyke had been able to lie still in her bed and listen).

So, yeah, Supernatural Mumbo-Jumbo? Not his forte.

Criminal Justice however… well… if he wasn’t able to do his job he shouldn’t have picked it.

And something about the whole fiasco had bugged him.

Little Ms Martin had, rightfully so, remarked that Phanes – the reported and documented owner of The Flittering Fellow – had not been found when Beacon Hills’ finest had moved in on the ‘den of inequity’. There had been a surprising amount of confused _Ladies_ , some of them dazed to a point where the DEA had had to be involved but no sign of the man himself.

Like his daughter had then rather succinctly exclaimed: there’d have to have been accomplices. His girl had even gone as far as to suggest that they’d have to be at least a-third – if only to complete a resurrection-ritual.

Now while he wasn’t hung up on the number itself, it gave him a starting point. _Because_ : he doubted that an accomplice, who’d gone as far as to murder people, feed them to some sort of power source and then come to fetch your dead-ass-body from a fucking crime-scene, would be stopped at pleasure visits.

Pun, probably, not even that far off reality.

So he’d sat down with the uprooted case-box full of reports on The Flittering Fellow, starting 1995 when it had been opened by one Mr Phillip Aleksander Nesser – born and raised in Kumla, Sweden, moved to America two years prior to the opening of his establishment, no records in his home-country, quiet life, one speeding ticket and three parking-tickets. No more – no less.

Nothing even remotely… drunk and disorderly; or even breaking and entering.

Nope: stellar, role-model citizen here.

It rankled.

So Sherriff John Stilinski dug a little deeper.

\--

Malia was convinced that whoever her new friend really was, she was also _really, really, really_ crazy – and given their current position maybe not even only in the best ways. There was something of a running joke amongst the employees here that went along the lines of genius and madness being separated by a thin line but even if she didn’t know what that meant, she was convinced that Stiles – and what kind of name was that – was treading said line like a tightrope acrobat: sometimes swinging a little more this way sometimes a little more the other way.

Today was probably a ‘Other’-Day.

“I don’t fit through that.” She said for what felt like the -nth time, shaking her head, “As a coyote, maybe, but in this form? No way.”

Stiles unhelpfully nodded, equally stubborn. “Yes way.” She contradicted. “Trust me you’ve got the limbs of an antelope on your current bod’ and did you know that Coyotes can _tiptoe_ when they want to go unnoticed? You’re a fucking _ballerina of nature_ , dude.”

Not too sold on the argument, she gave the small chute another look. “It looks lethal.”

It probably was.

Her friend sighed dejectedly. “We’ll be going together either way!” she exclaimed a little too loudly for Malia’s tastes – but then her hearing was still… overly sensitive, it could be nothing. “But I need you to get behind this as our ticket to freedom, Braveheart. We can Mission Impossible our asses out of here like a boss if you’re right about the employees not monitoring dirty laundry.”

Malia swallowed – giving the other teen a look.

“And what if we get separated?” --she needed to know; there was no way she was going to be alone out there _again._ The first time she’d managed to turn back by sheer dumb luck alone, she was doubtful her fortune would last for a second chance at such a miracle.

“Always follow the stink of wolf.” Stiles deadpanned without hesitation. “They’re probably agglomerating at the Loft or my house so whichever one it is just… follow the stench, I doubt you’d be able to miss it.”

The were could not dispute this.

\--

“What do you call it when a warlock has friends?”

Chris hesitated.

Somewhere in the world this was probably the opening question to a one-liner pointe that he didn’t yet know and was therefore in severe danger of walking right into. On the other hand-

“Geez, Chris, come on – what am I, seventeen?”

The hunter cringed ever so slightly despite the fact that John could not see him, leave it to the Argent to put his foot into his mouth without saying anything. He swallowed around the excuse that almost spilled over his lips and opted for silence instead.

“I dug around a little”, the Sherriff elaborated – as reliable as his daughter when it came to filling silences – “and our local warlock-pimp has some friends. So… what do you call that? What is that? I need to know how to deal with this.”

“A coven.” Chris finally replied, massaging the bridge of his nose. “If it’s more than three then it’s a coven – and it’s not a fun-thing either. You should probably… try to cover the connections until we’ve properly dealt with them.”

John sighed harshly and there was the slapping of a folder against a table in the background – probably the very same folder that John had just dropped in resignation; he hated having to cover up parts of an investigation, even if only temporary and Chris understood.

Because having to keep something under wraps when you’re not only legally obliged to move it out into the open but also paid by the _state_ to do so… went against everything that the righteous side of John Stilinski had lived by for years; and would have continued to if his daughter wouldn’t have gotten involved with the local werewolf-pack.

Things being as they were however meant that there had to be adjustments on all of their sides: Chris not shooting Derek or his pack and instead supporting them now and then when they happened upon something New, Melissa providing care for the humans in the pack and covering for any supernatural incidents at the hospital and John sweeping the occasional indices under the rug.

For the well-being of their town – of the world as they knew it – it had to be done.

“I’ll take the records with me.” Chris heard him say. “Not the first time I’ve taken a case home.”

Chris nodded into the receiver, forgetting that the Sherriff couldn’t see him – but John took his sporadic muteness better than most of his own family had… – knowing that ‘home’ was currently invaded by a wolf-pack who would be able to devise a strategy with this particular new tid-bit of information.

“Right.” John said, a little heavier, but more determined. “Thank you. Will you-“ --he paused, “Will you come by in the evening?”

The question felt… odd, despite the fact that it really shouldn’t, considering the amount of time he’d spent at the Stilinski household this week – but hearing it…

“Yes.” He answered quietly, lowering his head to take in the tips of his shoes, surrounded by earth and leaves.

“Good. Melissa said there’ll be something to eat so… yeah, see you tonight.”

And it felt equal amounts of weirder and _better_ having heard that.

\--

They should have known that it wouldn’t be this easy but hope, oh the _blasted_ _thing with fucking feathers_ , could make a person blind to their surroundings.

Stiles pulled a dis-satisfied moue, observing the medical employees weaving through the rows of industrial-sized laundry-baskets in their scrubs, sometimes diving in to twist the cloth around, obviously _looking_. Because: of course they would be; two of their patients had pulled a Houdini leaving behind a medium-sized bloodbath with no survivors.

She was actually surprised that the place wasn’t creeping with police.

But then… if it were they’d have to explain their Supernatural Tract, and their reason for conducting unauthorized Lobotomies on unsuspecting victims. Also Stiles had never officially been admitted so… yeah, she could see how that was not an option.

The fact remained that Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum were closing in on the one basket that Malia and Stiles had hid in. Pick up should arrive in five minutes – therefor the Spark estimated the arrival in ten minutes; give or take – and by then they’d have been discovered and carted out of the area without any witnesses. And that would simply not do.

This aggression would not stand.

The Dude minds, man.

About to jump out of her basket like a Freaking Jack In The Box, Stiles was surprised when the gate to the Loading Bay opened – _early_. Dumb and Dumber turned, equally surprised by this, and watched as the four-man-strong team of laundry-service spilled into the area.

“You’re early.” One of them said, Captain Obvious, voice gruff as he eyed the left-over baskets. There were ten of them, as opposed to the rest of the twenty that the Search Team had already gone through.

Laundry Service split up, three of them heading to the nearest bins while one came to face the medical employees off. A lazy grin spread over his face: “We’re feeling productive today.”

Stiles waited, listening to the rescue team slowly closing in on them.

“What a rare sight.” Medical Two taunted. “Productive Niggers. Haven’t seen that since the good old days…”

The whole room stilled.

Not having seen all of the Laundry Service Team, Stiles didn’t know what ethnicity they hailed from, but through the weave of her basket she could perfectly make out the dark skin-tone of Laundry who’d come to one-up Grey’s Anatomy. She supposed they had to be either stupid for aggravating a man two heads larger than they were or they were indeed White Supremacists.

Laundry, surprisingly, didn’t take the bait.

Uncomfortably he let the silence stretch, straightened himself to his largest and looked down his nose but other than that… not even a peep.

And damn if that wasn’t intimidating. (He reminded her of Green Mile’s John Cofffey all over…)

“Feel better about yourself?” he finally asked – and Stiles’ only reason for being able to keep up with his line of thought was because she hadn’t had a measly tablet of Adderall in like _forever_ and her brain was jumping between taking in everything at once and focussing on that spider in the right corner of the room where it built a web.

Grey’s Anatomy grunted, didn’t answer; Laundry cracked his knuckles.

“I imagine it comes with the profession… stepping on other people…” Laundry took a step forward. “But trust me, bub, you won’t be stepping on me anytime soon…”

The A-Team moved as one, carting laundry baskets while Medical One and Two were still rooted to the spot, chagrined and angry, but immobile. Stiles almost squealed when their basket set into motion and only avoided doing so because she could already taste the sweet air of freedom.

Which was, of course, why the basket hit a ledge wrong and promptly tilted to the side, spilling Stiles out onto the tiled floor.

Grey’s Anatomy zoomed in on her.

Laundry stopped dead.

Malia was still inside the basket.

Stiles made a stupid decision.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any kind of reaction is love for the writer :b


	3. Chapter 3

She’d explained it endless times by now.

When Derek had asked for a run-down she hadn’t minded, because he was her Alpha and the more he knew the better he could strategize. She hadn’t even held back on a description of the strange teenager, had asked him if he’d known someone like her but had mysteriously enough received a negative answer.

But after Derek, Scott had wanted to know and then Allison, followed by Isaac and then Cora and Kira and Deaton and even Chris f-ing Argent –and by evening her throat was parched and her tongue fuzzy from having explained in the very same words over and over again what she’d seen.

She was tired.

So when somebody knocked on the door at eight-thirty in the bloody evening, Lydia screwed security measures and went to tear the door from its’ hinges and have a good go at the poor soul on the front-porch.

Only…

“You.”

Lydia stared, long and hard, waiting for the Spark to jump out from behind the teen in front of her arms stretched wide in a mimic of Jazz-hands; didn’t hear when behind her the pack assembled to scold Lydia and see for themselves who it was. She supposed too that they could scent what the Banshee already knew.

“Lyds?”

She turned, giving Derek a non-descript look – _hoped_ , at least, that it was non-descript; that it covered the sheer panic that bubbled underneath her skin.

“She’s without pack _now._ ”

\--

The up-side of the whole fiasco was that Stiles could feel Malia meeting the pack. She hadn’t bothered to contemplate on the _how_ , but the tight-wound ball of pack-bonds on her chest – still strained, still raw – included Malia and the Spark could tell that she herself was the only one not present wherever the pack was.

Malia was safe.  
And right now, that was important.

That was what she had to focus on; _that_ instead of this.

“You caused us a lot of trouble, young Miss.” --Stiles knew the voice; she’d heard it not a few days ago and the same icy chill that had accompanied its presence then suffused her now. Something cold was pressed to her temple, stuck there. “We’ve had families asking for their bread-winners, children crying for their fathers… And you couldn’t be found.”

Stiles had to focus on Malia – she took a deep breath through her nose.

“Imagine our surprise when it seemed as if the Earth had swallowed you.” the man continued and Stiles resisted to look up into his face (she didn’t need to focus on this now – she needed to focus on _pack_ ). “I haven’t had anyone like you before… Supernatural but… not.”

Stiles had to focus on Derek.

“Our Data doesn’t include beings like you so…“, --another cold press; to her sternum, “I volunteered.”

Stiles had to focus on Isaac – she took another deep breath.

The man stepped away, white coat vanishing from the edges of Stiles’ vision and if she were honest with herself _not_ seeing was way worse than focussing on blocking out his ugly mug. She took another deep breath; couldn’t focus on that now.

Stiles had to focus on Scott.

Something clicked behind her, filled the room with a static hum that Stiles had heard before, a hum that she knew. She swallowed awkwardly around the mouth-piece between her teeth, taking another deep breath, forcing her eyes shut.

Stiles had to focus on Lydia.

Another, quieter, click sounded through the white-tiled room – almost agonizing in her ears. “Wednesday, 23rd September 2014, Medical 1-7-4-9, Fenris Ward. Object 7-0-6 has been found attempting an escape and secured, currently on the table, preparation for ECT completed – starting at 9 Volt.”

Stiles swallowed, taking another deep breath, and _prayed_.

\--

Malia knew these people – she could tell that the one with the fluffy hair and kicked-puppy-look was _Scott_ and that the blonde, tall one with the scarf was _Isaac_. She also knew that the black-haired hunk in front of her was _Derek_. And she knew that they were unlikely to harm her.

Because Stiles had told her so.

And while her friend might have been a little on the loony side, she could doubtlessly be trusted with the judgment on people – there had been _something_ about her that had made Malia feel safe, grounded and _home_.

Still in her Eichen-House-issued-scrubs, she was now seated on a plush couch that smelt so profoundly of Stiles that Malia had to hold back on the impulse of burrowing into the cushions to sink into the smell of safety – _actively repress_.

“You are pack.” Derek said decisively but ultimately intrigued, his broad arms crossed in front of his chest and Malia, despite the fact that her animal purred and rolled on its back in the back of her mind, grimaced, giving the older man a derisive look.

“I’m a coyote.” She argued. “You’re _wolves_. I don’t know about you but I’ve learned that those two don’t get along.”

A lithe brunette, left and behind from Derek, smirked, shoulder angling closer to a girl of seemingly Asian ethnicity. “Neither do Foxes and Wolves.” She replied, not holding back on the glint of satisfaction in her eyes as the black-haired girl burrowed her face into the offered neck without restraint or hesitation.

For a moment Malia said nothing and only watched. Stiles had told her about this; had kept her entertained with stories about her ramshackle pack that took in everyone who was willing to contribute to it and mean it. Malia hadn’t believed it.

No – that wasn’t true.

 _Malia_ wanted to believe it.

Her _coyote_ was beyond suspicious (distrustful even).

When she raised her eyes back to Derek, he’d uncrossed his arms, hands now in the pockets of his jeans – a small _something_ tugging at the corner of his lips as he returned her look. He shrugged. “You might not be a wolf, but I’d be a poor excuse for one if I didn’t smell the pack on you.” He hesitated shortly, then said: “Also, Stiles took you in. I’d be an idiot to distrust the judgement of my Second.”

And _that_ was an interesting thing, Malia decided – because she’d never even thought about a human in a wolf-pack… not to mention a human Second in a wolf pack. But if that was what Stiles was…

The brunette from before interrupted her musings, slowly closing in on her, taking a whiff ( _this_ Malia knew…), before she looked to Derek – for permission the coyote noted. The man nodded cautiously and, before Malia had a say in it (not that she _would_ have protested), the brunette closed in, pressing her nose to her neck.

“I’m Cora.” The girl muttered by way of introduction as she tilted her head, rubbing it more firmly against Malia – the coyote stilled for only a moment in Malia’s mind before it responded, rolling around in the cloud of pack-scent like it had in its first snow.

The pack circled her, scenting her one after another, some rougher than others, some more enthusiastic about the scent of _Stiles_ on her scrubs and Malia revelled in the feeling of wholeness that encompassed her and blanketed her; warmed her better than even her fur-coat could.

“Whose do you think she is?” Cora asked Derek, while Lydia was rubbing over Malia – despite being a human, or rather a Banshee, she was ingeniously apt at copying pack-motions; it felt _right_.

The coyote opened her eyes to watch her Alpha – and wasn’t that weird, having an Alpha all of a sudden – shrug. “Doesn’t matter.” He said, catching Malia’s eyes with his green ones. “She carries the pack in her blood.”

She might have imagined the secret smile on the lips of the two before she closed her eyes again, sinking her nose into Lydia’s wonderful locks, but if she was honest with herself she wouldn’t even have minded if she’d been a rascal picked up from the boardwalk – this was her family now; blood or not.

(She didn’t have to be alone – never again.)

**

After having been offered a shower – _so deliciously hot_ – and a few of Stiles’ clothes that Malia wouldn’t have been able to turn down even if the human wouldn’t have been her size, the pack came together in an unfamiliar room on the first landing.

Malia didn’t have to be told the original purpose of the room, going by the scent of her Eichen-friend imbued even into the _wood_ of the furniture. As the pack settled, she was allowed to choose her place, picking a corner not too far from the door. Neither of the pack commented on it and Derek had them arrange themselves close enough to her without blocking her exit-line, something that the were-coyote found herself eternally grateful for.

Because it showed that her Alpha understood… and he cared.  
(And because her beast had had its doubts about this, but with every movement from Derek it settled deeper into the belief that Stiles might have been right…)

They were about to put on a movie – and if Malia was honest she was beyond excited because: what was a _DVD_? – when a large shadow darkened the sole window to the room, blue eyes burning through the glass.

Startled Malia crouched, eyes copying the colour of whom she perceived to be an intruder. “It’s okay, Malia.” Her Alpha soothed, a strong, but careful hand in her neck –insecure not about the motion but of touching her – she slackened her muscles, complying with the older man as Scott opened the latch to the pane.

In stepped a wolf, shorter than Derek and smelling… crazy. And not the Stiles kind of crazy either – the tightrope-balance – no _he_ was nuts with a capital N, probably belonged to Eichen House more than either Malia or Stiles did. She stepped behind her Alpha when he let her go, and she watched him nuzzle the man shortly.

Their interaction was stiff, but familiar and the were came to the conclusion that they knew each other more intimately than Derek knew anyone else in this pack.

“Peter.” Derek greeted him, but when his pack wouldn’t follow the Alpha’s example and nuzzle the new-comer like _pack_ , Malia realized that there was something stranger about the man than his _crazy_ let on. Something so extraordinary that while Derek accepted the man as pack, he didn’t ask of his own pack to do so; that while the man obviously was on his own and away from pack, he was not, per definition, a feral.

“Derek.” The man acknowledged her Alpha, nodding even as his eyes swept over the assembled crew – his eyes were unsettling, even as they had lost their glow and rested on her. He made her uneasy and yet she refrained from stepping back, the hair in her neck rising on its own accords – bristling.

“What do you need?”

The eyes of the man snapped back to Derek, his head still facing her, giving her Alpha a comical side-glance that seemed to underline the mental instability his body exuded – Derek didn’t let it faze him, Malia decided to take her cues from him and cemented her position, locking her knees.

A small box appeared in the palm of _Peter_ – Stiles _had_ mentioned him, now that she thought about it… – and judged by the widening of Derek’s eyes he had not expected that. Whatever the object was, it held an untold story.

“She took something from me.” Peter said, his voice a little rougher than before, raw and emotional – _dangerous_ , her coyote cautioned as it ducked with avid focus – “I need to know what it was.”

Something clattered within the box as Derek received it, his eyes softening as he cradled the wooden container. Cora’s eyes were stuck on the box as well, one of her hands clutching at the Fox’s lower arm with a strength that would have injured a Non-Supernatural; Kira didn’t move a muscle.

\--

Despite the fact that elation sung sweetly in his blood with a vehemence he hadn’t felt since having freed Stiles from Phanes, Derek closed his eyes, resisting the temptation to steal the container from his uncle and never have him talk about it again. He knew that this was not the way to go – _they’d learned better ways_ , he’d said so himself.

Opening them again, he held the container out to Peter again, swallowing – a gruelling pit growing in his stomach, anticipating the anxiety that giving _this_ up would cause. “I am sorry, Peter.” He started, locking eyes with the man whose eyes turned hard at the words. “I… can’t right now. We’re fully booked as it is.”

Peter’s eyes swept over the pack again, stilling – as before – on Malia, before they returned to Derek’s face.

“Stiles?” he cautioned and really, it shouldn’t surprise him that Peter had more insight than he let on. Derek nodded, Peter’s stance relaxed – his face morphing into a cocky expression. “I might have caught her scent not too far from here…”

And of course he’d try to barter. Derek shook his head. “We know she’s at Eichen.” He interrupted his Uncle, not trying to hide his annoyance at having caught the man trying to weave him into one of his schemes – the were didn’t even look guilty. “What we _don’t_ know is how to combat a Coven.”

Scott stiffened behind him, irritated and – yeah – Derek could understand how letting Peter in on this little detail could look like showing his belly. But Peter wanted something, and Derek knew that the content of the box he still held was powerful; could help _them_ too…

If it was a deal with the devil himself that would bring Stiles back to him then so mote it be; without her he was nothing either way.

Peter’s eyes flashed with triumph as he tilted his head, looking down on Derek as if he were nothing more than a _cub_ to be scolded. “Your mother did.” He retorted – ever so certain of himself; Derek wondered if his uncle knew that he played right into Derek’s hand (wondered too if it wasn’t the other way around because with Peter you never knew). “As do I…”

\--

He wasn’t being entirely honest with Derek but… well, what else was new.

Certainly, he had returned to retrieve a part of his memory but there was something _else_ , something so deeply ingrained into him that it sat deep in his bones, had him aching unless he was in the near vicinity of the rookie-cluster that were Derek’s pack.

His nephew had grown too – matured beyond the brooding, angry young man he’d left behind merely a year ago. The connections hummed strongly amongst the pack and where before he’d had to concentrate to _hear_ it, he now barely had to tilt his head into the direction of one of the pack members.

“I told you my hearing is… impaired.” Lydia hissed at her Alpha, crossing her arms.

Derek gave a short smile, indulgent – something he’d never been before – and ere Peter could think about it, he’d opened his mouth: “With that voice?” he taunted. “What a surprise.”

Lydia glared.

Peter relished in it and his bones ached a little less.

The Alpha shook his head, catching Lydia’s attention with the motion. “You have proven that you are more than _ears_ , Lyds.” He cajoled. “If there is something, _anything_ that could help I am positive there’s no one better than you to find it.”

Peter resisted staring because _that,_ right there, was true leadership – Thalia 101 – and it heartened him as much as it pained him to see the man his nephew had become; a man who trusted his pack, who encouraged their abilities, a man who supported his family.

A man like Thalia would have wanted him to become.

The Banshee’s glare withered away, turned thoughtful and Peter carved the image of her pouty lips into his mind, drank in her pale countenance like a man starved – as he knew he was…

Finally she sighed, gifting her Alpha with a meaningful look through the thick of her lashes – and how he wished it would be _him_ receiving that look – before she reached for the container. “I swear the things I do…”

“…they make you grow.” Derek chided gently, brushing a lock behind her ear.

Peter didn’t comment on their nearness, knew he couldn’t even though he wanted to, because as intimate as it would appear to humans, for werewolves this was the natural closeness of pack, the familiar interactions of somebody known to you so thoroughly that you could know the number of the freckles on their noses without having to count or look anymore.

And he couldn’t fault them for that – if anyone was to blame for the blazing jealousy in his chest then it was himself (he’d tugged so viciously at the bonds in his chest that they’d given in at some points, becoming abraded and thin…).

So he sat and watched as Lydia herded the pack into the living room, not hesitant to include him in her Border-Collie-behaviour, and grabbed the container that Peter had brought with him almost like an afterthought from Stiles’ bedside-table. The strawberry-goddess, Stiles’ nickname that Peter – at some point – had picked up, lacking a favourable alternative when it came to describe the whirlwind that was Ms Martin, arranged the pack-members in the room, and he observed how she sunk into her trance a little further with each body she situated to her liking.

She placed him second-to-last, manhandling him between the empty couch and the dining table, looking at the door to the back-porch – Derek she positioned a few feet to his side, looking at the front-door before she sat between them, the container in her lap as she crossed her legs.

“Not a peep until I’m done or I swear to all that is Holy I’ll scream your ears off.” She warned, garnering a soft smirk from most of the pack – Peter notwithstanding – but being heeded.

\--

Malia had heard of Lydia – Stiles had told her all about the Strawberry-Goddess, the woman who could run miles in high-heels and still look perfect to a point of making men grovel at her feet.

The coyote knew of such perfection, had witnessed it in nature, and when she’d laid eyes on Lydia Martin she hadn’t once doubted the truth of her Eichen-Friend’s words – Lydia was a force of nature bundled up in pretty wrapping.

As she opened the container, spilling what looked like _claws_ into the palm of her hand, Malia tilted her head but, remembering the warning, didn’t move from her spot. The red-head _smelt_ like pure focus, and a little like ozone… or… rain on the dry forest floor… something mystical and powerful. Malia did not want to come too close, even though the scent drew her in like a moth.

Watching her was strange, the trance making the usually graceful young woman a little… edgy in her movements as she stood, eyes locked a little next to her hand, head cocked, lips pursed.

She wasn’t seeing the _here_ – Malia realized when Lydia started to weave through the pack. She stole a pen from Peter’s breast pocket and moved to the man that smelt more like Stiles than any other person in the room – the coyote suspected him to be her father – before she stilled momentarily and her ears _twitched_.

As if she were a wolf, her body went completely still, just barely hunched at her neck, with only her ears moving up and down sporadically, sometimes at the same time, sometimes out of sync – a _human_ shouldn’t be able to properly do that. Malia was entranced.

When Lydia moved again, she ended up pushing her side intimately against Peter, and Malia couldn’t see her face but the sheer amount of misery she broadcasted was almost enough to make her move and comfort the young woman – Derek looked equally miserable but stood his ground, swallowing heartily. Malia took her cues from him – Alpha knew what to do.

Something dropped to the carpeted floor and the scent of blood permeated the air; silence stifled Malia, _strangled_ her with the impulse to get over to Lydia _now_ and make sure that she was alright, to hold her as the metallic scent was harshly intersected by _salt_. But Derek still wasn’t moving, hadn’t even turned his head, despite his eyes almost getting stuck in the corners of his eyes as he watched Lydia avidly – his jaw working where his muscles wouldn’t.

Scratching interrupted the heavy silence and it was all that stopped Malia from breaking the spell.

Lydia’s arm was moving in jerky motions, but there was no doubt that it was her pen moving over the note-book of the Sherriff in hasty strokes.

Malia couldn’t _see_ but the muscles in Peter’s neck strained in a familiar way, signalling his desire to turn around and move but holding himself back from doing so. Her gut constricted, her throat clogged as she swallowed, but she stood her ground – anxious.

Anxious as, she could smell, the whole pack was, none of them able to see what Lydia was doing, pressed up so closely against Peter, starting to shiver as she continued. The sobs were audible by now, ugly, wet sounds that were wrenched out of Lydia’s chest by what seemed like indomitable force – and Malia’s heart _ached_. She nearly whined; stopped only by the sheer stubbornness her proper Alpha displayed.

The coyote couldn’t wait for this to be over already.

**Author's Note:**

> REVIEW PLEASE =)


End file.
